When You Lose It All
by Rebecca Pierce
Summary: He didn't see it, did he Tifa? He never turned around to see you falling apart right in front of him. But you are. And yet you smile. . . smile like nothing's wrong and he's not gone. But he is. He is and you know that there's nothing you can do about it.
1. Week 1

A/N: Happy Singles Awareness Day (AKA Valentine's Day for you lucky few. Lol.)

Disclaimer: I own a heart that's more duct tape than red and a little piece of imagination that I keep in my pocket. Everything else belongs to the sharks of business.

**When You Lose It All**

**Week One**

The first time he came around, the barmaid was surprised. The last she had seen of him was during their goodbyes back when the flowergirl had . . .

No.

Shaking her head to rid herself of the maddening thoughts that would soon follow, she gathered up a tray of filled drinks and headed towards the three men who had ordered them.

They were deep in conversation when she arrived gracefully at their table with a smile. And she didn't flinch under the appreciative up-and-down glances she got on her physique. When you served enough drinks, when you waited on enough tables, when you talked to enough of them, you learned to ignore those dirty little looks, or the way their fingers seemed to twitch nervously, and the way they grinned at you.

And even though they didn't touch her (though some had been stupid enough to try before), she felt dirty. Like she was doing something wrong, or had disappointed someone, or even done _them_ a terrible wrong.

And now, with an old comrade sitting on a stool by the main bar counter, the feeling seemed to magnify. But she didn't shrink under the stare that bore a hole into her back. That accusing stare had been on her for so long that she had learned to bear the worst of it.

If _he_ were here, she wouldn't feel this way though.

But he wasn't.

And the fact that she had failed to keep him here beside her made her feel ashamed. The others had expected her to ground him. Hell, they expected her to _marry _him.

And she had failed.

Cloud should be here helping her. He should've been beside her, holding the bigger trays while she served drinks, like back in the beginning after the end when it all seemed right again . . . if only for a little while.

But it wasn't.

When she returned to the counter, she pretended not to see the gunslinger there for a few moments as she scrabbled to fill more orders.

He watched her every movement; how she took bottles off shelves with fluid hands, her eyes calm in the midst of the chaos and liveliness of the bar patrons that laughed and talked. It was like finding two crimson pools of calm waters among an earthquake.

From her lips came small muttered lists of things she needed to stock and other things that even his keen ears couldn't catch. When the front door's bell chimed she stood up, plastering a well-versed smile on her face and nodding a welcome at the new arrivals before continuing her work.

It was as she was gathering the colorful assortment of drinks on a tray that he decided to force a response from her. Not from annoyance, mind you, and not even boredom. It just seemed so wrong to watch her and not do anything. That, he guessed, was a remnant of the old days where help wasn't asked for-it was given without a second thought.

"Need help?" She didn't jump at the sound of his voice like he knew she wouldn't. Instead, her eyes strayed to him and she smiled; another fake smile, but Gods did it _ever_ look convincing on her.

"Thank you Vincent, but I think I'm-" He lifted the tray with ease, balancing it on his human hand and holding the other edge with his claw.

"Where do you want these?" He said from behind his collar.

Thin brown eyebrows arced then as her eyes widened. But then they came down and her lips slowly spread into a genuine smile; her eyes glittered with mirth and appreciation.

"Bring them here please." She said.


	2. Week 2: Moogle

**A/N: **This story will be told in vignettes, so if you don't like the inconsistency, I'm sorry. I just thought I'd experiment with it and see what came out.

I don't know why I wrote this vignette of sorts . . . I just thought . . . I guess I wasn't thinking at all! XD Something cute, on the lighter side, and rather random. But hey, it still sorta fits, don't you think? I'm just kinda throwing this out there, and I honestly don't know what kind of response to expect because I just sort of got the idea today, wrote it down today, and pray for a response today. Lol.

Anyways, thank you for the review (Tiramisu, you rock! Lol. :D), and I hope to get more feedback from the rest of you.

**Disclaimer: **You really think I'd be writing here if I owned them? Haha, that's funny . . .

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**Week 2: Moogle

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He stared at it.

It stared back.

His crimson eyes narrowed.

It didn't move.

He frowned.

Its' plushie smile didn't change.

He grabbed it.

It squeaked in protest.

The girl at the front counter looked from him to the toy in his grasp, and back up to him. She smiled warmly then, as if to say, '_how cuuuuute'_. But she didn't say anything as she took it from his hesitant grasp and rang up the tag.

For all she knew, it could be for his daughter.

(He didn't have one.)

For a little girl's birthday maybe?

(Marlene's birthday wasn't for three more months.)

A gift to a girlfriend?

(The last girl to be even remotely close was now in a cave, a statue in crystal.)

Well, he didn't even want to begin considering what other ideas might run through her head--all wrong of course.

"That'll be twenty-five gil, sir."

He fished out the gil with his real hand, sliding the coins over as he began to reach for the item sitting on the counter.

"Would you like me to put a ribbon on it, sir?" He looked up then from behind the deep red collar, his hand hovering over the pink ball sticking up on the plushie's head.

Looking down at it, he frowned, trying to remember _why_ he had even tried to bother with this.

And then he saw her again, with her right hand pressed to the glass of the front display, a child-like aura to her as she smiled wistfully and shyly for wanting something so childish. She even shifted nervously from foot to foot, her hair swinging in its long ponytail.

"_Isn't it cute?" _

Her red flecked orbs of chocolate turning to meet his own curious gaze.

"_I can't remember the last time I got a stuffed animal . . . I must be getting old . . ."_

Ah, _that_ was why.

He nodded then, pushing the toy gently over to the young woman. The brunette ducked down for a moment, coming back up with five different spools of ribbon in her hands and showing them to him.

"What color will it be?" Crimson eyes narrowed then, grimacing at the sheer complexity of such a small and nice gesture he was attempting to make.

Green, red, blue, yellow, or pink.

Pink was out of the question. That had been Aeris' signature color and the last thing he wanted was to bring something so . . . _painful_ up in such a warm home. The last thing he needed was for his random act of kindness to backfire on him.

Not blue. Blue was like Cloud. And Cloud just made him angry with all the stunts he was pulling of late. He was one of the main reasons why the gunslinger was around anyways. Sadness. That didn't deserve to be on the plushie that was meant for her.

Yellow . . . no. It was just . . . no. It was like putting Yuffie in an elegant restaurant- it just didn't bode well and looked bad.

Green. Hmmmm. Sort of reminded him of forests. All the traveling, mako green, _Gaia_ green . . . nope. Didn't _quite_ fit.

All that was left was the red ribbon.

Reluctantly he told the girl his choice, who nodded in agreement and seemed to silently approve of it as she cut the ribbon to a reasonable size and tied it into a perfect bow with nimble fingers.

"How much?" He asked, taking the plushie gently and getting ready to hand over more gil. The girl looked down at the toy tenderly, looking up to meet his even gaze and smiling at him, shook her head.

"Don't worry about it. Just go make her happy."

His eyes widened at this, but by then the girl had turned and left for the back room to stock up things in the small shop that had been depleted throughout the day.

Taking the toy, he pulled it with his claw so that it hid underneath his cloak. He walked out calmly, feeling strange with the new weight clutched firmly to his side in an awkward grasp.

From where he was, it wouldn't take too long to reach the newly built Seventh Heaven a few blocks away. Maybe five to ten minutes at most . . .

Again he became agitated as he tried to come up with a way of handing over the toy. Must this be so hard? Because now that he thought about it, his reasoning had been rather random and _un-Vincent_ like for the thing in the first place.

But that look on her face . . .

When was the last time someone had bought something for her? Heck, when was the last time she celebrated her birthday? What was she now, 20?

With some quick mental math he came to realize that she had been about seventeen when she had first gotten deeply involved in Avalanche. But even then, from what scraps he knew about Avalanche's history, she had been involved even before that.

He hadn't gotten into the Turks until he was about twenty.

But her . . .

The moogle under his arm suddenly seemed so tiny and stupid. How could something so trivial as a _toy_ make her happy? It just didn't seem like enough to him, walking slowly to the front door of the unopened bar.

Taking it out from beneath his cloak, he looked at it with a frown.

A small nose, a stitched x for a mouth, a large ball on a wire for an antenna of sorts like on the real creatures, white velvety fur, and a red ribbon tied neatly around its neck.

In his claw it looked so pathetic and fragile.

"_I can't remember the last time . . ." _

And that was what made him suddenly want to give her the toy all over again.

So he knocked on the door, waiting for an answer or some sort of sign of life from inside. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long though. She was always very careful about such details, and being good to her guests. It was her trademark among the Avalanche members.

He admired that in her.

She deserved to be happy, he thought soberly. She was young and she had a long life ahead of her. Whether she knew it or not, he knew that she was going to grow old and be one of those people that peacefully died in their sleep.

How much had she done for this world? Now that he thought about it, it seemed that if she hadn't been part of Avalanche, many things wouldn't have happened. She was crucial to this world, whether anyone realized it or not.

She _definitely_ deserved to be happy.

And if it was a moogle with a red ribbon that would make her smile . . .

"Oh, hello Vincent!"

Then that's exactly what she would get.


	3. Week 2: 6 Gil None the Richer

**A/N: **Aaaaaack!!! Gomen, gomen, gomen!! (Sorry XD) I am SOOOO sorry for taking so long with this but I've been **uber** busy lately . . . not that it is any excuse, just a reason for why I haven't been around. XP We go back to the angstier side of things now, but we'll see what happens next time, because I have a thought for the next one that's nagging at me . . . but we'll see.

Thank you my awesome new beta Kantama for helping me, and I hope this is to everyone's expectations! XD Please review, you guys know those are **always** welcome! Otherwise, just sit back and enjoy the ride . . .

**Disclaimer: **I have no witty way of saying that I don't own them this time, so I'll keep it short and sweet: no own, no sue. XP

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**Week 2: Six-Gil None the Richer

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**

The coins clattered noisily on the bar counter as her hand dropped them carelessly.

It was a mindless gesture that seemed to follow the ticking of the clock unconsciously, following every second with a meticulous precision that had slowly come to being as the hours passed in silence. Her chin was cradled in one hand, one elbow propped up on the wooden surface of the bar's front counter as the rhythm of the coins continued with her other hand.

_Cha-clink._

_Cha-clink._

_Cha-clink._

Sitting closely on the countertop was a black cell phone that lay mute beside a glass a third full of some beverage Vincent assumed was alcoholic in nature.

Marlene was sitting on the floor next to Tifa's feet discussing something with Denzel in hushed tones. Their schoolwork was scattered around them creating an interesting array of colors—like a giant fan full of numbers and letters that reminded him vaguely of Hojo's own demented scribblings in Nibelheim mansion, messy and yet somehow in some semblance of order.

A frown was hidden behind the top of his cloak.

He felt ashamed for considering such a connection but it was something that just couldn't be helped. There were times when little things such as this would remind him of moments in time he'd rather forget- was _trying_ to forget- and yet somehow they seemed to snake into every aspect of his life without even trying.

And then there was her.

Was this how she felt, sitting there with him then, waiting for Cloud? Did she replay her life through her head over and over again, seeing it in the little things around her too?

All these replays of the past . . . a bar reborn, a man gone, and a life alone again. She was torturing herself for the sake of a man that didn't even know _himself_; had lost what was left of him within a moment of time he would never be able to change.

And yet, knowing this, she continued.

_Cha-clink . . . _

_Cha-clink . . . _

_Cha-clink . . . _

Three hours.

The phone had rung once three hours ago. Their words were careful when they spoke, casual and delicate in the moment that seemed as fragile as a spider's web. He promised to be home in about half an hour . . . Or so Tifa had said.

_Half_ an _hour_.

Vincent glanced up at the clock, wondering how far into the alcohol Tifa had gotten. Her gaze was lost, swimming between here and a time long past as her fingers curled around the six gil in her grasp and she lifted them, rhythmically dropping them on the counter.

That smile that she had learned to fake, that beautiful lie that had been perfected down to the slight revealing of the dimples in her cheeks was drowning in the pools of crimson-flecked brown that were her eyes. He wondered for a moment if maybe that smile had just been a figment of his imagination when last he saw her. If he tried, there was no way he could imagine that smile on her face now.

_Cha-clink . . . _

_Cha-clink . . . _

_Cha-clink . . . _

It was unsettling.

He wondered at this for a moment, watching the glinting coins fall once more onto the counter. His claw hand twitched.

Crimson eyes then fell on the children at their feet, calmly analyzing every movement, every breath.

There was something nervous about them, like a cloud of anxiety that they felt hovering over them and choking the happiness out of the room. It was in their eyes, Vincent realized. They felt that something was going on and they were afraid of the change in their mother, afraid of this side of her they had never really seen so blatantly revealed because she had always tried to shield them from herself and her troubles. It had gotten to the point where Tifa couldn't take it anymore, and they were terrified of making it worse if they were to disturb the thick silence around them . . . sort of like waking a sleeping monster.

Her sadness had reached such levels that it was becoming exactly that: a monster that would thrash about in her ribcage, at times tearing her to pieces in a slow, deliberate manner or mercilessly raining blows about her at others.

Cloud . . .

He wondered if this was what Cloud was running away from. Tifa as a reminder of his painful past, his own wild monster, the constant living proof that he had messed up more than once and definitely in more ways than one. Or was it from Tifa's _love_? From every aspect of forgiveness he felt he didn't deserve for not saving Aeris that day and then coming home to a woman who was willing to forgive and forget not only that, but everything he had ever done wrong to her . . . a monster of guilt.

But to run away and leave her like this, to blind oneself to such suffering was inconceivable to the gunslinger. Or had they all been following their own path of suffering to this end, blinding themselves to each other?

It would certainly make sense that way, yes . . . At least if only to understand Cloud's absence and Tifa's broken state. Because that was what they had done in the beginning, wasn't it? All, in their own fashion, joined on a whim hoping against all odds (in some twisted way) to reach some form of closure on the mess created by half-truths and full-out power struggles.

Marlene coughed softly.

And what if Cloud came in this very moment? What would he have to say to Vincent, sitting there beside the barmaid and trying to understand why even after what they had accomplished, peace was unreachable for them? Would he be surprised to find him there or act nonchalant as usual? Would he kick Vincent out for taking his favorite bar spot?

Denzel sighed, shuffling through some papers as he muttered something to himself.

What a strange bunch they were, Vincent suddenly thought.

If someone were to walk in on this scene, what would they have to say about it? There was certainly no warmth to it, that much was for sure.

A little girl sitting with her legs crossed, a textbook on one knee, and a worksheet on top of that where she began to write her name carefully. Her eyes shifting from the work before her to her companion on the floor and then up to the woman sitting on the stool beside them, her long hair tickling the young girl's back as she brought her gaze back down worriedly.

In front of her a boy two years her senior, bent over an open book on the ground with a sheet of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other, stopping only to erase or to glance up at his mother and scrutinizing her form for any sign of change. Finding none, he would somberly return to his work, suppressing a sigh that Vincent could almost hear in the boy's movements.

And her.

Above them and as unreachable now as a fading dream. Everything about her spoke of her mood, from the long, flat, and lifeless brown hair tied back clumsily, to the pearl earrings that dangled from her lobes dully, hidden in the dark shadows of her stray bangs.

She was the image of a mother and yet a perfect reflection of composed agony. Everything seemed to clash in her posture, in her eyes. Like the sadness and a chocobo print apron Marlene had given her. Confusion and a yellow ribbon holding back her brown locks. Questioning and the beaded bracelet Denzel had made for her at school.

"The food's getting cold."

The room went silent. They all slowly looked to her, the two children exchanging a look before looking up at their adoptive mother in apprehension of what she would do or say next. These were dangerous waters no matter what they did. They could've asked where Cloud was, but looking at Tifa was enough of an answer. And besides, they had that answer already anyways.

He was anywhere but _here_.

And yet, in some way, he _was_ here, Vincent thought with a frown. Looking at Tifa literally screamed that at him. Cloud Strife may be nowhere in sight, but he was certainly everywhere in _sound_.

_Cha-clink. _

_Cha-clink._

_Cha-clink._

He was in the silence of the empty bar. In the ticking of the clock, the hushed conversations between Denzel and Marlene, and the continuous clinking of those six gil in Tifa's hand.

_Cha-clink. _

_Cha-clink._

_Cha-clink._

It would be three more excruciatingly long hours before the front door of Seventh Heaven would open and reveal a man with unruly blonde hair. He would be distracted at first, trying to keep the noise level down so as to not wake the children or their mother as he slowly slipped his boots off with a wince.

Then, and only then, would he pick up the sound of coins hitting the countertop softly.

Walking up to the dark main counter he would find a man there sitting in the place that the swordsman usually occupied.

"_They're all asleep." _The other man would say, the coins clenched in his hand. _"She was waiting for you up until an hour ago."_

There would be a silence then thick with feeling. The gunman would slowly place the coins down one by one on the countertop, making an even line. And as he did this he would realize that there were six, almost like the fighter had known.

One for each hour the swordsman had failed to show.

He would feel intense blue eyes fall on him as he got up and made his way to the front entrance. At the threshold, with his hand still holding the door open, he would turn and face the swordsman with a gaze glowing crimson in the night.

"_You owe a lot more than six gil, Strife."_

And leaving the blonde in silent confusion, he would walk out into the night.


	4. Week 3: What She Was

**A/N: **Wow, been so loooong! XD SO sorry. Anyways, been wrestling with this a while now, but I finally got it out, yaaay! Well, here ya go and enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Sue not you will, for own not I do.

**

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**Week 3: What She Was**

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"_I was born and raised mostly in Nibelheim. Well, at least up until. . . You know."_

She was a mother, a child, a woman. Everything mixed together in such a way that sometimes he couldn't tell where one label ended and the other began. Broken, mended, and broken again, she was agile and resilient in ways that many others could only dream about, and made all those labels all the more blurry in his eyes. Sometimes, it seemed for the better, while other times it made understanding her actions all the more confusing.

"_There wasn't much to see there." A shrug. Her eyes fell to the glass of wine in her hands, a reminiscent smile tugging gently at her lips. "We were the small town with the nice houses, old fashioned ways, and one grocery store. Sort of like the towns you see on postcards, you know?" _

She intrigued him.

"_Cloud and I, we didn't really know each other back then. I mean, we knew that the other existed, but it wasn't like our worlds revolved around each other. So you know how surprised I was when you told me that he told you I was a close friend. I mean, when did that happen?" Her eyes went up to meet his then, a small confused chuckle escaping in the silence between them. "I always wondered about that. . ."_

It was the little things--the way she spoke, smiled, and moved. Because wherever she went he knew; he just _knew_. He could feel it no matter how hard he tried to ignore it because her presence felt different to those around her. Hers wasn't light like Aeris' was. Hers was heavier, more tangible, more _breathable_.

"_Maybe," She shrugged then, smiling painfully up at him. "maybe it's how he really felt about us. Maybe we were meant to stay that way right? I mean, it's not like he would be here forever." She sighed then, her gaze once again slipping down to the blood red liquid wavering in her cup. "Still. . .It would've been . . . nice."_

With Aeris sometimes he felt thin and translucent--like a soul made of glass that she could look through with a confidence that could make anyone flustered. But Tifa . . . Tifa made people believe blindly. She was a deep rooted hope that never wavered or died; she was comfort and solace to Aeris' all-seeing love.

"_You know, when I first saw you in that coffin in the mansion I wasn't afraid?"_

She was different in a normal way--something he couldn't quite understand about her yet.

"_You looked. . . I don't know how to explain it. Honestly, those first couple days with you in our group it almost seemed like you would get lost in the shadows of the ship. You were so quiet--you still are sometimes." A giggle. "But not as much as you used to be."_

She was a taste of Wutaian wine--sweet at first, laced with a tinge of bitterness that was hard to detect after the first sip and just as hard to find as the liquid itself. Refined and yet robust, tainted and pure all forced to coexist in a heart that seemed impossible to break. . . She was a walking marvel of fate.

"_I think we've all changed a lot from how we were when we met, don't you think? It's so strange to think of our group that way--backwards. We've all come so far. . . It's still hard for me to swallow sometimes. But, I mean, just look at us. There's no denying it."_

Sometimes, he could read her as easily as the books he kept on the shelf, read and reread until he knew it all by heart and flipped through the pages solely for the comfort of it. But then there were some rare moments when she would turn around and completely throw off whatever ideas he thought he had about her, how she was, what she did. Times when he would try to grasp at what she was and couldn't, for the life of him, wrap his mind around her reasoning. Like when she would stop what she was doing and ask him what he liked, or what his thoughts were about some minor unimportant thing. Sometimes, she would seem in deep thought, looking up to find him there and throwing whatever strange thought that had been harboring in her mind at him. It was like she was constantly changing, constantly altering herself to fit into whatever situation she was in, or to whichever person's liking she was with at the moment.

"_Denzel is sort of getting better. I wish I could do more for him, but no one knows what this sickness is that's going around. I feel bad for Marlene too. I had to make her sleep in my room. Whatever this is, I don't want both of them getting sick, so I have to keep those two separate. If you hear anything at all, please, let me know. I've been to at least ten doctors and no one knows what's going on. I hear there is a man in Costa Del Sol who can heal him--a medicine man-- but I don't know. . ."_

And then there were the times when he could label her so easily; almost like reading a deck of cards. An Ace of Spades, a joker, a queen. For her they were named more along the lines of "the fighter", "the barmaid", "the mother". It astounded him though how easily she slipped from one to another so flawlessly, so expertly that it sometimes unsettled him to realize how experienced she was at it for one who seemed so naïve and young sometimes.

"_I'm thinking of closing the bar on Sunday to watch over the kids. Maybe if I take a day off and spend it with Denzel, it'll make him feel better and cheer up Marlene as well. She's been so worried about him. " She smiled. "You're welcome to join us, if you want of course. Since you've been coming around more often now, I figured you'd want to know. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to lock you out too. Especially since you brought me this great wine."_

She was Tifa Lockhart: surrogate mother of two, bar hostess, fighter, friend, and whatever other titles he couldn't possibly even fathom her having in the short time he had known her.

"_If it's not raining and Denzel feels up to it, we can go on a picnic. Now, I know there's no parks around here, but what about a picnic on the roof? I think the kids would like that."_

But most of all. . .

_She suppressed a giggle then, looking up at him. "And we can use your cape as a blanket."_

She was just Tifa.


	5. Week 3: If Your Eyes Were Open

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**Week 3: If Your Eyes Were Open  
**

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_It's over_. You think to yourself. _I won't wait for him anymore. _

But you still sit there, staring at the space where he should be at the front of the table and across from you. It's empty; as it has been for hours, days, weeks, and even now months.

You begin to question again whether he'll turn those months into years.

Denzel coughs.

The three of you freeze-Marlene's eyes go wide with fear, your fork is midway to your mouth, and Denzel's face is momentarily full of turmoil as he tries to hide the pain.

You know it's not asthma.

He shakes his head as if to clear it, the deep of his blue gaze slowly coming to focus again. There's a deafening silence as you and Marlene wait with baited breath, wondering whether you'll have to call the hospital. But then he looks up at you, noting guiltily that there's fear in your eyes and he smiles weakly.

"I'm okay." He mutters.

Slowly things begin to slide backwards again and all you hear is the clink of their forks on plates as they eat, Denzel feeling the weight of worry that burdens you completely in your gaze.

There's a knock on the door.

For a moment you hesitate, wonder if it's him, and then frown because you know it's not. Pushing your chair back you smile at the children, tell Marlene to keep her elbows off of the table, and let them know you'll be right back.

The hardwood of the floor makes a distinct _thunk_ _thunk_ as you walk to the door. You've almost forgotten what it was like to be stealthy-but to salvage what pride you have as a fighter you try to step lighter to see if you still have that ability. You smile when you note you can still mask your steps.

When you open the door, the caped man standing there is looking down. His crimson gaze slowly lifts up (almost shyly, you note) to meet your own gaze, and you can't help the welcoming smile plastered to your face.

"Hi Vincent, how are you?" He shrugs, turning to meet you with a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth upwards.

"Fine." Men seem to go to extremes, you note. Either they talk too much or barely enough. But coming from someone who never made conversation at the beginning of your travels as Avalanche, you feel it's a start.

"Come in, we've got dinner on the table." You see the subtle twitch of surprise on his face, more out of embarrassment of dropping in at a possibly bad time, but you shrug his look off and beckon him to follow you.

He stops by so much these days that you offhandedly suggest to make him a spare key. His eyes widen slightly, and he shakes his head, dipping his nose below the collar of his cloak, muttering something.

"Hi Vincent." Marlene says first, grinning up at him as she sets a cup down. Of course you help her, already filling a plate for him as well. You know that if you ask he won't eat, but that once the plate is in front of him, he feels bad saying no and you use that to your advantage-it's for his good.

You sneak a glance, and you like how nice it looks to have the small kitchen table full. Even if it's only four chairs, to you it means the world when you only learned to fill three.

The meal goes on in companionable silence, and then you all slip into the living room to watch a movie, sitting on the couch rather awkwardly next to the cloaked man who you know is thinking something, but you can't quite tell what.

You close your eyes and feel the warmth radiating from his presence beside you--human, palpable, _alive. _He's there. Awkward maybe, quiet, but there.

With him there you forget to play hostess. He's been there long enough that you really don't need the formalities, don't want them, and certainly feel no need to go three steps back with the two forward you have taken together. So when your eyes begin to close, you don't try to keep them open. The kids know the routine by heart, the couch is definitely comfy enough, and Vincent won't leave forever regardless of how many times he steps through the door while you sleep.

You know this.

And if you were to truly ask yourself why, you can't really say you could answer it. Maybe it was pity for you at first, or needing the company himself (because beneath the cape was still a _human_); maybe you would never know.

But you did know one thing: even in silence, the man beside you had chased away your nightmares--with or without the guns.

And whether he knew that as he carried your sleeping form up the stairs and gently placed you in bed (with some direction and pushing from Marlene), he didn't give an inkling away. No, nothing at all.

Even if the only one watching was a moogle with a red ribbon sitting on the nightstand.

So you didn't see him take the covers and pull them up to your chin. You didn't notice how his crimson gaze caught sight of the toy and it seemed transfixed there, amazed that you had kept it and not given it to Marlene or maybe to one of the kids on the street. And for that one moment, had your eyes been open, you would have caught a small sliver of something there, beneath the red of his irises, in the subtle flecks of brown within them.

But then again, maybe that was a trick of the light.

That is, if for a moment, your eyes had been open.


End file.
